


Travels with Trolls

by OldSwinburne



Category: Daughters of Darkness (1971), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Понедельник начинается в субботу - Стругацкие | Monday Begins on Saturday - A. & B. Strugatsky
Genre: 1980s, Arrogance, Crossover, Disguise, Espionage, Europe, Flashman meets Harry Potter, Gen, Likeable!Gilderoy Lockhart, Multiple Crossovers, Nebulous European/Russian Country, Obliviation, Ruritanian, Strange Russian Fantasy Characters, Unreliable Narrator, With a touch of Prisoner of Zenda, Wizards, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldSwinburne/pseuds/OldSwinburne
Summary: Gasp in awe as Gilderoy Lockhart finally reveals his story! The man, the myth, the magician! Swashbuckling! Espionage! Adventure! Gaze in shock as he obliviates his way to an important position in European royalty!





	Travels with Trolls

 

The room was bland white, although it was not the stark off-putting shade I have heard exists in some Muggle hospitals. This was a slightly grimy, lived-in off-white colour, as if I was living in a bottle of curdled milk. Specks of paint flecked off the walls, turning into motes of dust as they drifted through the air. Shower curtains had been commandeered and transformed into the drapes surrounding my bed; a single light shone out from the corner, a lone lighthouse standing among the waves of mundanity that threatened to swamp it. 

The rather ugly Nurse Matilda McPhee came into the room as I lay on my bed concocting said metaphor, and smiled a warm, Hufflepuff smile as she plumped my pillows.

“Good morning, Gilderoy! Bright and early, I see! No nasty dreams, then?”   
“No nasty dreams, Matilda,” I replied. This had been the early morning routine for going on ten years, at his point.

“Who’s a bright boy?” she cooed. “Dyb dyb dyb?!”

“Dob dob dob!” I echoed obediently, preening under her (deserved) praise. This little ritual had its origins, I believe, with the Wizard Scouts of Baden-Powell, of which Matilda McPhee had been a past member.

I should pause here and explain my situation to those who are unaware. I was currently in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, suffering from severe Spell Damage. A little conflict at Salazaar Slytherin’s recently discovered boudoir at Hogwarts had led to me suffering from severe amnesia, and I am afraid that even now, several decades after the fact, the old Lockhart cogs were a little rusty. 

When I had been first admitted into St. Mungo’s after the disaster of what I was already terming in my hypothetical autobiography as “my last great adventure”, I could hardly remember my own name, but I am glad to say that recent innovations in wizarding science (which seems rather oxymoronic, now I think about it) has led to the return of the vast proportion of my memories. Or, as my personal Healer insisted on phrasing it, eighty-eight point nine per cent of them.

A knock came at the door. Ah, that would be her now.

“Miss Granger! Come in!”

My aforementioned healer walked smartly through the door, a manila folder with the initials ‘G.L.’ stencilled onto them held tightly under one arm. She looked up at me, vaguely peeved.

“You know I’m not Miss Granger anymore, Mr Lockhart. I’m married now.” Her words had no genuine ire in them; this was as much a part of routine as ‘dyb dyb dyb’ and ‘dob dob dob’. She raised a significant eyebrow at Nurse Matilda McPhee, who, grasping the hint, made a hasty getaway, pausing only to re-plump my pillows.

Hermione Weasley nee Granger had been a former student of mine, and although I recalled nothing more than an upraised hand emerging from a disturbingly bushy mess of hair whenever I asked a question, the girl had blossomed into a powerful political figure. Gone was the shy, nervous, bucktoothed Hogwarts student of her youth; instead, this was the woman I had heard referred to as ‘Danger Granger’, who could demolish grown men on the Wizengamot floor and leave them weeping in fear. If the rumours were correct, she had once kept a slanderous journalist trapped in a glass cage for over a year, and had scarred a fellow student of hers for life when she had betrayed her underground paramilitary organisation. This was not someone to mess with. She was currently interning over the summer at St. Mungo’s, and had taken my case as a particular challenge; she had once confided in me that this was chiefly so she could help repair her parent’s minds, whom she had also obliviated almost to the point of mindlessness. A scary, scary woman. 

We sat in silence for a while, the former Granger paging through my medical folder while I pushed my Eggs Benedict lazily around their china plate with my fork. I had managed to make the egg yolk form an approximation of a grinning face when my healer spoke up.

“Mister Lockhart,” she said, distracting me from my breakfast absolutions. “How has the treatment been going?” 

I flashed a disarming grin at my former student, which, unfortunately, entirely failed to disarm. Perhaps I should use an  _ Expelliarmus  _ next time. “The treatment has been going very well, I believe, Miss Granger. No relapses, no nightmares, no false memories. A testament to your impressive skills at magical healing!” Feeling gripped with a sudden jocularity, I toasted an imaginary glass to the former Granger’s honour.

“Good, good.” She paused, clearing her throat and shifting the clipboard nervously. “Good. You’re numbers are stable, and you’ve reached approximately the stage I would have expected you to be in at this point. You’re on the straight and narrow, Mister Lockhart. I’m sure you’ll be out in no time!” She offered me a tremulous, watery smile at this point, and I merely gazed neutrally at her, knowing what was coming next.

Miss Granger gave a sort of rolling sigh that had the remnants of a sob tied up in it. “Lockhart--- Gilderoy---- Why- Why did you do it?”

“ _ It _ , Miss Granger?”

“Why did you wipe the memories of all those people? Why?”

Ah. Now that was a loaded question. It may surprise you to know, Dear Reader, that I, Gilderoy Lockhart, am not quite the glamorous soldier of fortune that my friendlier critics identify me as. I could never have got to where I am today without the (not always willing) help of several loyal friends and allies. In truth, sections of my novels I removed, like a poet snatching inspiration from the angels, from the hearts and minds of those around me. You may gasp. But I believe that my works are so much more engaging for this. Within my books, I have delved deeply into the psyche of the common man, exploring what makes him think, what experiences they have had, their life, their woes, their tragedies. People say I am a charlatan and a crook; I prefer, a pioneer. The simple  _ obliviate  _ is a much-maligned spell, but how many of us have been fascinated with the dreamlike quality of the memories found within a pensieve? The  _ Obliviate  _ spell _ ,  _ I continue to maintain, comes from much the same sector of magic.

But perhaps you misunderstand my motives. You do not see that what my Muse urges me to do, to borrow, use, and, yes, perhaps steal, in order to create a story. But who am I to explain the workings of my mind? What seems a duty to those such as I, others view as a crime; what I see as ambition, others see as greed. Who can say who truly has the right answer; not I, certainly. But perhaps that is where true magic lies; the simple, dizzying power of a story. For all the wonders of the world opened to children with that first letter from Hogwarts, the fundamental enchantment of the imagination lessens somewhat. Am I to be blamed for wishing to restore the dizzying dreams from the minds of adults to those of babes? No; no; a hundred times no, I cry. The Wizarding World is built on stories, and I am just another architect adding to the vaunted halls at a reasonable cost, discounts pending.

I was jolted from my musings on the subject  by the erstwhile Miss Granger, who had cast herself as the sceptic in my discourse on imagination.

“That--- is --- poppycock!” she hissed, turning an interesting shade of puce. “You have stolen the memories of people, Lockhart, actual genuine  _ people,  _ to fill one of your tu’penny ha’penny  _ storybooks?!?!”  _ She spoke with all of the affronted anger of one who had been personally betrayed by those closest; I had had no idea that my books had been such a comfort.

I gave what I hoped was an enigmatic wave of my hands. Miss Granger was one of those creatures whom were simply anathema to the magical world; a flagrant cynic. Her antics had become somewhat legendary among the ministry of magic, or so I had heard. She had once spent three weeks with a microscope and a muggle computer examining different permutations of tarot cards and tea leaves, before storming out in a fit of pique.    
House Elves still lived in fear of ‘The Great Rational One’.

Miss Granger’s ire rose to a crescendo, hissing more accusations at my prone form, before she deflated with an almost audible ‘pop’. Her features softened somewhat, and she reached a trembling hand up to push back her hair. There was silence; her eyes, containing a steely stubbornness that had nevertheless been somewhat tempered with age, looked out at me.  

“Lockhart,” she started, in the manner of a judge dictating a sentence, “If you are so fond of stories, will you at least tell me the truth about one of your novels? I mean, without all the lies and obfuscation and Merlin-be-damned  _ obliviations. _ What about your first, hmmm? The start of your downward spiral?”

From her leather satchel she removed a leather-bound book, pages mottled and worn with age and attention. On the cover, in an embossed photograph, was an artist’s rendition of a particularly handsome and well-dressed wizard- yours truly- valiantly fighting against a large, stony creature. As I watched, the small facsimile of myself darted forward and bopped the troll on the nose, causing the creature to stagger back and groan with mock gravitas, before the two resumed their initial positions. The words ‘ _ Travels with Trolls’  _ proudly proclaimed the adventurous nature of the story within.

I was familiar  indeed with this particular story. Miss Granger was right when she called it my first; it was something of a personal triumph to my younger self, fresh-faced and twinkle-eyed, having just graduated from Hogwarts. The year was 1982, if my prodigious memory serves me correctly; a momentous year, by all accounts. The noble young Potter scion had recently thwarted He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Millicent Bagnold had just ascended into her post as Minister of Magic, and the ever-noble underdog of the Chudley Cannons had seen a disastrous Quidditch season. Britain at the time was fraught with uncertainty and fear, despite the lifting of the decades-long shadow that had occurred. Death Eaters lurked at every corner, and people were quick to accuse each other of treachery. While Millicent Bagnold had attempted to impose a form of magical ‘Blitz Spirit’ on the populace with her optimistic speeches (“I assert our inalienable right to party!”) Magical Britain was just emerging out of a period of total war. Crouch’s fear mongering tactics ensured that any individual even remotely connected with the Dark Lord were removed hastily, and so a mass exodus of the more unsavoury elements of the populace was underway. The Malfoys claimed to have been the _Imperius_ curse the entire war, and so squirrelled themselves away unscathed to their chateau in France to wait out the storm. Evangeline Ernst, Voldemort’s Grand High Witch who had slaughtered the McKinnons, had gone undercover as the head of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty Children before being killed in a mass transfiguration accident. Fenrir Greyback at buried himself in the werewolf packs of the Balkans, the only trace of him being the occasional sound of a howling at the moon. I myself- as unlikely as it may seem- was cast in a somewhat negative light after an ill-timed fireworks display promoting my own personal brand coincided with the casting of a Dark Mark. It seems that even the great Gilderoy Lockhart was able to be accused of criminal activities, not least after a rather unpleasant smear campaign from _The Daily Prophet._

The hysteria of the post-You-Know-Who world was untenable for a gentlemen of as refined composure as I, and so I decided to undertake a tour of magical Europe. There was nothing quite like a jaunt out of doors to get one’s mind out of a state of lethargy, and so as I packed my bags and my staff of loyal House Elves wished me a tearful farewell, a state of excitement overtook me. I could smell the deep, heady aroma of ancient pine forests, the spicy scent of some delicacy roasting on an open fire, and the firecracker fizzle that always accompanies a journey by Portkey. Oh, the Great Outdoors! If there is one thing to say about the population of Britain, they are notoriously isolated; what excitement there is to see in the winding road, even if through the window of a high-speed train.

As any seasoned traveller should know, the best mode of transport by far is the aforementioned train. Accordingly, the first step in my small vacation was the hustle and bustle of that premier train station, Platform Nine and Three Quarters. I was standing in what was, arguably, the heart of magical London, nestled in the bosom of the Muggle King’s Cross. Oh, what sights this spot must have seen! Did the ancient Witch-Queen Boadicea truly make her last stand here, against the encroaching mass of the Roman  Warlocks? Who can say! I was still, however, heavily conscious of the awe-inspiring history and majesty of the place. 

It is a common misconception that the Hogwarts Express in the only train that uses the Platform, merely because the station is at its busiest in September and July. Not true, say I; the majestic Orient Express, the first of its kind before the muggles purloined the name and idea, departs from there like clockwork, and, on this occasion, I would depart with it. My destination was the wild, untamed country of Norway, as I had heard impressive stories of the troll population who lurked in dark woods and under bridges. 

The Orient Express, in its scarlet-and-gold glory, represented much of what made wizarding society anathema to the enterprising muggleborn; the exaggerated finery and artistic sensibilities did nothing to detract from the fact that it was highly inefficient, buoyed with an almost grotesque sense of nostalgia. It was like a glass slipper, or a gilded sword- beautiful, but ultimately useless in achieving its chosen purpose. The gilded monstrosity puffed into the station half-an-hour after its scheduled time of arrival, ancient wrought iron bones creaking under its weight.

Say what you like about Britain under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but at least the trains ran on time.

I passed along several compartments before coming across one appropriate one, empty with the exception of a battered edition of  _ The Quibbler  _ shoved under the armrest. The crossword was already partially filled in, but I had long since learned to handle untenable and dangerous situations like these, so I set about completing it with admirable aplomb. I was wrestling with a particularly thorny riddle (Thirteen Down, Eight Across, Five Letters, ‘A Person Who Deceives Or Tricks Others’) when the compartment doors rattled open to divulge two women of unusual bearing. The first was dressed from head to toe in red, the satin flowing off her like wine. Her voluminous sleeves flounced out in an impressive effect, effortlessly accentuating her sylph-like figure. A scarf- again in blood-red- wrapped around her neck, trailing behind her like a carriage. Yet despite these intimidating fashion choices her features were soft and delicate, eggshell hair lending a certain fragility to her appearance. The second- her secretary, presumably- was much more plain, having to heft her bags into the railway carriage. She had a bobbed haircut, an appearance that made her attractive, certainly, but left her hair looking rather like an egg. I fear that she was doomed to always be overlooked in favour of her more beautiful companion. Strangely, the two must have come straight from breakfast, as they both had small tendrils of spaghetti extending from either side of their mouths.

Conscious of social niceties and etiquette, I stood, took the first lady’s unresisting hand, and issued a magnificent bow, pressing my lips to her pallid fingers. She was too composed to blush, but I could see that her eyes glittered with something close to amusement.

“Gilderoy Lockhart at your service, my good madam,” I said, with all my natural charisma. “Gentleman, scholar, adventurer, and winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award.”

At this early stage in my career I had not yet won most of the accolades that I would become famed for; I only had an award from Witch Weekly, wrestled from James Potter’s undeserving hands during my Sixth Year at Hogwarts, to my name.

“Ez az ember?” asked the dark-haired woman to her blonde companion, to which she replied “Úgy hiszem, drága. Biztosan meglepő módon emlékeztet a miniszterre.”

I am afraid that languages were never my strong suit as a child, so when the good lady turned to me, saying “Megtiszteltetés számomra, hogy megismerkedhetek”, I raised my hand, signalling that I wished for the verbal deluge to end. Within wizarding circles, of course, my dear reader, language studies are largely neglected in favour of transfigurations or potions. Magic largely dispenses the need for national boundaries, as an easily-applied translation charm renders such communication easy. Of course, such charms were not to be applied as a permanent feature, but they were useful when in different countries; I had an unfortunate tendency to forget whether the spell was active that had seen me in dire waters in the past.

The charm- ‘ _ Linguam’,  _ for all those following along at home- was cast, and worked like, well, a charm, and soon the two ladies and I were chatting away as if there was no language barrier between us. I re-introduced myself as Gilderoy Lockhart, and bowed slightly in introduction. The lady didn’t curtsey, but merely looked at me with a curious glint in her eye. “Countess Elizabeth Bathory, monsieur,” she responded, her accent noticeable, but not one I could place. “And this is my secretary--”

“Ilona Harczy,” murmured the raven-haired woman. She looked at me from under her fringe, her doe-eyes strangely disarming. I should note at this point, dear reader, that by this I mean that her eyes reminded me of a frightened deer, not the ingredients of bread. While her skin was pale enough to resemble flour, her eyes did not resemble dough, sadly enough. 

Feeling slightly peckish, I bowed deeply to the two women. “I’m honoured.”

The Countess Elizabeth Bathory. I had heard that name before, in the many hours I had spent sequestered in the Ravenclaw Common Room with a copy of  _ Famous Witches and Wizards  _ by J.W. Wells and a large notebook. I could scarce remember any details about her now; all I remember are shapes and colours and feelings, a synaesthesia of the mind. Icy tundra and cold dead eyes, rich red blood flowing down the steps of the Kremlin like wine. The name was sensual, a burst of sexual passion dressed up in the stiff Hungarian tongue. I slept ill that night in the small hotel bed I had rented, and that was only partially to do with the lack of eiderdown pillows. 

And yet, despite the threatening connotations I felt from seeing her, her eyes and voice betrayed an innocent childishness, a lack of guile that soothed me and alarmed me simultaneously. Her age-old eyes spoke of the moment that innocence was lost, that terrifying and sublime moment when purity and chastity is broken upon the filthy anvil of adulthood, when one realises that the world is a deeply unfair and upsetting place. Her voice reminded me of that adolescent feeling; it was cloying honey with the bee sting still in it.

Elizabeth Bathory appeared as the dusky European sensuality, heavy eyelids suggestive of passion, scintillation in every sculpted eyebrow. Ilona Harczy, meanwhile, had a blank-faced innocence, the guileless American flapper. She was Louise Brooks to Bathory’s Marlene Dietrich. 

“So,” she said, smiling prettily, “What brings you to our marvellous country?”

I confess, dear reader, that my selection of which country to visit for my little sojourn was less complex than it may have seemed. I performed the mental equivalent of throwing a dart at a dartboard, and made a completely random decision; but, of course, I am Gilderoy Lockhart, agent of chaos, and I thrive in the excitement and danger of the uninformed decision. Other, less courageous souls than I would weigh up the advantages of a potential course of action, giving it due deference and forethought, but in those occasions I embrace my Gryffindor side and make a blind leap of faith. The upside of this was that I did not, actually, know which country I would be spending my holiday in. It hardly mattered; these Eastern European countries were all the same, with their hidebound monarchies and fearful, cowering peasant population. It was probably called Ruthenia or Ruritania or Orsinia, or something else with a similar suffix. 

“The wonderful culture, my dear.”

“Ah!” She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously, blue doe eyes boring into mine. I suddenly noticed how red her lips were. “You’re here for the coronation, I presume.”

“Coronation?”

“Well, they say coronation.” Her eyes glimmered with an inner darkness, or maybe it was cataracts. “It’s the appointment of the new Minister for Magic, Dmitri Oblansk. It’s happening tomorrow.”

She smiled widely, catlike in the suddenly darkened train carriage, and a trickle of blood oozed out of the side of her mouth.

“Erm, excuse me? You’ve got a bit of---,” I gestured at the corner of my mouth. “Might want to mop it up a little.”

She flicked out a serpentine tongue and mopped up the specks of the ruby liquid, but this only succeeded in smearing it slightly.

I was not as oblivious to international wizarding culture to not know who the fabled political darling of Europe, Dmitiri Oblansk, was. A wealthy pureblood who had entered the political sphere some ten years before, Oblansk made waves by announcing that he would be bringing the wizarding world of Denmark and environs into the nineteenth century. They would have tried the twentieth, but baby steps, after all. 

It was with a certain amount of effort that I turned away from the enchanting Madame Bathory and her dowdy companion and looked out of the window, seeing the non-specific Eastern European countryside whizz past. After a while, however, I realised- by opening the window and sticking my head partially outside- that we were approaching a large lake, and that the train tracks on which we were currently advancing at a decent pace extended into it. I alerted my companions to this change in our stature, and Bathory did nothing more than raise a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me.

“Gilderoy,” she simpered girlishly, “our next stop is in Kitezh, the underwater capital of wizarding Europe. Frightfully gauche, of course, but these graduates of Durmstrang do hark so fully on their own nautical theme.”

That statement was, at least, true.  Most of the scions of Eastern Europe tended to travel in large boats, a cultural stigmatism arising from, apparently, their home village of Kitezh. As I looked out of the window I could see a lone castle appearing on the far side of the lake, of which I was hastily assured by my companion that it was Durmstrang itself.

“A dreadful place, by all accounts,” said Bathory, stretching languorously across the plump seats like a cat. “All gothic windows and bat-laden towers.  I’m an alumni of Beauxbatons, myself, and we certainly don’t have any dark lords in our closets. Not since my glory days, anyway.”

It was certainly true that Beauxbatons had had a more peaceful century than Durmstrang or Hogwarts, being free of the Grindelwalds and Voldemorts of the world. 

The lovely Ms Harczy blushed, and gazed with those doe eyes at the resplendent Countess. “I don’t think you ever were Dark,” she said, her voice gaining a husky tone. “I could never do that to you.”

“Oh, Ilona,” the Countess murmured.

Their dynamic seemed unusual to an unbiased observer; there was a deep affection to them, and, as I looked, Ilona tilted her head affectionately into the Countess’ warmth. The blonde-haired woman pressed her lips softly into the smaller woman’s hair, causing a small blush to alight itself on her features, a soft down on an ivory hill. They were probably sisters, I estimated. 

Ms Harczy was undoubtedly rather plain, but I was suddenly struck by one particular facial feature. Like Bathory, her eyes gleamed with a thousand sorrows; like limpid blue stars, they spoke of things seen and unseen, lives lived, lovers taken and forsaken. I could sense a depth about them, a mesmerising quality that promised anguish and hardship, and yet, like the age-old Pandora’s Box, at the centre of them, wonderfully and gloriously, was that spectre of hope, whispering cloying, honeyed words of comfort into my ear. I wondered what Babylonian deeds and scenes these two ice-cold mirrors had been witness to, for, with the pain that glimmered in those pools of ink, they must have been witness to a great many.

She noticed my scrutiny.

“Oh, sorry!” she apologised, hastily. “I must have left my contacts in.”

She quickly removed these; her actual eyes, newly revealed, were normal and unremarkable. Brown, if I remember correctly. 

“In short, Gilderoy,” Bathory resumed, “this region represents the political centre of Magical Europe. The magical and scientific worlds converge in Kitezh with NiiChaVo, a research institute dedicated to determining the truths behind all things. There is the neighbouring Latveria, run by that mad metal-bound gypsy, and the land of King Dodon, looked over by an enchanted golden cockerel. All things on heaven and earth are here, and I believe it is time to answer my question.”   
She leaned forward, paralysing me with her gaze. Her eyes grew larger, seemingly filling the room with their mesmeric quality. Ms Harczy sharply glanced at her, as if begging her to desist, but Bathory continued regardless.

“So, Gilderoy?” she said, drawing out my name syllable by syllable and dissecting it mercilessly. “Will you be going to see Oblansk?”

The train compartment was becoming alarmingly small, and I could smell the sharp sulphurous scent of incense in the humid air. At that point, my normally sharp mind was becoming somewhat foggy, and I could not recall the precise reasons for my visit. I remembered something about visiting a cousin in France, but then my train of thought derailed somewhat. Was the cousin in France? Did I have to visit him? What for? Was it not more likely that I would go somewhere to the East of that country, in the Germanic forests of the Balkans? And was it really my cousin I had to see, or the new Bulgarian Minister for Magic Dmitri Oblansk?

It was at this moment when one of my frequent bursts of genius occurred to me. I would attend the coronation of Dmitri Oblansk! I had long hankered after a life of politics, or at least had done so to while away the occasional half-hour, and surely attending such an event and seeing the brightest and best of the wizarding world would see me well on the way to that goal. It honestly astonishes me the sheer variety of ideas I had come up with myself, of my own accord.

“Yes, I shall attend,” I said, affixing one of my patented grins to my face. The Countess gave a catlike smile at this, and her girlish charms suddenly condensed into something a lot more sinister.

“Excellent,” she said, and I felt the fog of my mind suddenly swallow me up as I collapsed into a light sleep.

 

I woke up to an empty train compartment, the good Ms Harczy and Ms Bathory having left only a half-empty bottle of champagne behind. On the seat opposite, however, was two small pieces of paper- one printed on stiff card, and the other written with harsh pen-marks on lightly-scented notepaper. The card said:

_ TICKET FOR ONE _

_ Enjoy your stay! The Society of the Crossed Keys invites you to stay at Excelsior Palace, Kitezh, the finest hotel this side of Ruritania! _

_ This ticket allows one GILDEROY LOCKHART extended admission for the foreseeable future. _

_ Please deposit all luggage at a reasonable hour, and do not cause dismay or inconvenience to the waiting staff. Meals available at special request.  _

 

And, on the reverse, in sinful red ink:

_ A Gift from a Special Admirer _

_                                                             --Countess Elizabeth Bathory _

My name was written in pencil. The ticket looked realistic enough, and I, the great Gilderoy Lockhart, was used to gifts given to my (female) admirers. The other sheet of paper seemed somewhat more banal:

_ I apologise. _

_                             ---Ms Ilona Harczy _

As a token of affection, I am sorry to say that Ms Harczy’s missive thrilled me far less than the Countess’ did. But then, who would trade a Marlene Dietrich for a Louise Brooks?

The window of the cabin was open, gusts of cold wind cooling the room considerably; it was therefore with a certain amount of haste that I pulled the window up and latched it securely. As I did so, I noticed that we were pulling up to an intensely crowded station.

I do not know your personal feelings on the matter, dear Reader, but I personally find something inherently exhilarating in being the main focus of attention, especially in some crowded location. Not for me is the act of the shy Ravenclaw, engrossed in his books; during my schooling career I marched through the corridors of Hogwarts with my admirers following behind me. It was therefore with a certain amount of relish that I realised that I was once more the centre of attention, as almost the entirety of the station were looking at me with a mixture of confusion and awe. 

I feel that this is as good a time as ever, dear reader, that although I initially presumed that my audience’s frank approbation was due to my innate charisma and charm, the truth was somewhat more unusual. When they saw me, they were not amazed at seeing the Great Gilderoy Lockhart, winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award; they were agog at my close resemblance to a certain figure of note. And so, even as I smiled and winked at my adoring fans, it was not me that they were seeing, but rather someone with even more political influence than I had, if you can imagine such a creature.

The name of the station, written in letters of iron above the puffing smoke of the trains, was ‘Kitezh’. I had arrived; I had a destination, a hotel to spend the night (thanks to the honourable Countess) and a possible person to attempt to meet in the figure of Dmitri Oblansk. My time at Kitezh promised to be relaxing, enjoyable, and filled with promise.

Oh how wrong I was. My time in the town of Kitezh was instead marked with adventure, intrigue, espionage, derring-do, and the type of adventures that lead to several lucrative book deals. For you see, my dear former Miss Granger- and you are still following along, are you not?- there was more going on beneath the surface than was immediately apparent. Just as the town of Kitezh was located underneath Lake Svetloyar, so to was the political machinations of post-Voldemort Europe lurking beneath my apparently uneventful train-ride.

Follow along, and watch my words, my dear reader. For, in stage magic, as in real magic, half the enchantment is in the story. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I noticed that Gilderoy Lockhart reminded me a lot of Flashman, the George Macdonald Fraser character. Both are cowards who are perceived as heroes, and both are utterly morally bankrupt. So here's an adventure with a (mostly) sympathetic Lockhart tearing a swathe through a 1980s Ruritanian Europe/Russian country, cobbled together out of various works of twentieth century fantasy. Bathory and Harczy, by the way, are from "Daughters of Darkness" (1971).


End file.
